


Wet T-Shirt

by Microdigitalwaker



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Coming In Pants, Finchco, Fire, Grinding, Kissing, M/M, Man boobs, Rusco, wet t-shirt
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-28
Updated: 2017-09-28
Packaged: 2018-11-04 14:50:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 1,560
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10993152
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Microdigitalwaker/pseuds/Microdigitalwaker





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Mimine101](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mimine101/gifts).



That his jacket and clip-on tie are polyester is a given and so Fusco feels no surprise when the licks of flames from the burning warehouse cause said garments to melt rather than burn. That his dress shirt is also melting infuriates the seasoned detective.

"Cotton-poly blend my ass!" he snarls between coughs, stripping to his undershirt as he ducks and dodges his way outside into the pouring rain, John Riley leading the way like a demented bat.

The cold March downpour feels terrific, soaking Fusco to the bone. It stings, yeah, but that's all right; it's 3rd degree burns, the ones that don't hurt, that he fears. Under the bluish light from John's 'borrowed' SUV, he scans his bare arms and then pats his throat, face and scalp. The rain brings out the unpleasant odor of burnt hair but Fusco's eyebrows are unsinged and theres only a smattering of little blisters elsewhere; he's had worse sunburns. It's only when his inspection is complete that he notices the way John is looking at him.  Fusco follows bis eyes,, which look bloodshot and hungry. Follows them down to his chest...

Fusco wants to explain that it's just the way the men of his family are built.  That it isn't a glandular sort of thing and that he's all man, thank you very much. He'd add that they are bigger now than when he was young , especially now that he's stopped boxing and has lost some hard won bulk in his pectorals, but all that comes out, kinda soft and weary is, "Take a picture. It'll last longer."

 

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

Fusco tries to turn away as John hulks over him, his wrist catching in John's grip, twisting as he is pulled snuggly between John's thighs and the steaming bulk of the SUV. Fusco hisses, feeling a fresh blister pop below John's calloused palm.

Over his thrumming heartbeat, Fusco hears a quiet, hollow, pained little moan and it takes a minute to realize that it wasn't himself but John. John, who could be injured eight ways to Friday but never caring, not if someone under his watch is harmed.

"S'not bad. Like a sunburn. Like this time i went to Coney Island...."

Fusco's babble is cut short by a kiss.

It's not that Fusco isn't enjoying John's sinuous tongue exploring his mouth, it's just...just a surprise, though looking back, maybe he shouldn't  be, what with the way John says his name drawn out, like he wants it to last forever.  Or the way he likes to grab Fusco by the scruff and haul him around like he's a kitten. Or the way he looks at Fusco  sometimes, leaving Fusco with prickly skin, red ears and a flip flopping tummy. 

In retrospect, it makes all the sense in the world.

Fusco spreads his thighs a little wider, grabbing  John's hips to pull him hard so that their erections rub together and when his hand slides up a little  so that it touches bare skin through a rent in John's shirt,.there's more moaning to be had.

The kiss breaks.  "That's quite a rack you've got, Detective," John says huskily, raising his hands so that they hover over Fusco's chest, not touching but near enough to feel the other man's heat.

Fusco nods shakily, shivering with anticipation, his stiff little nipples saluting his tall, dark and mysterious partner.  "Yeah, man. Go for it," he replies, trying not to sound likes he is begging,  like maybe he's jacked off thinking about this sort of thing a time or two, so sue him.

John's touch is reverent for about ren seconds and then he is massaging roughly, squeezing Fusco's  man boobs together like maybe he has had a thought or two while jacking it, maybe of pressing the little mounds together so that he can fuck his dick between them.  It gets loud, quick, until Fusco can't tell who is louder, both like a pair of alley cats rutting in the swirling ashes of the destroyed warehouse.

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

Fusco walks the last eight blocks home in the rain after John taps his earwig and slams to a halt, knocking over three garbage pails. "Get out," he barks, reaching over Fusco to pop his door open, copping a gentle feel as he does so. Fusco is too spent to protest any of tbis, even the sweet little kiss John plants on his cheek before driving off lime a bat out of hell. It's gotta be Glasses, he thinks, imaging the soft, delicate little bird ordering a panther of a John, who eagerly leaps at the smallest command. It occurs to Fusco, as he walks, the mess in his pants starting to dry and chafe, that Finch must have heard everything.

Home again, he stows his holster, badge and other subdries before dumping his ruined clothes into the trash, a lost cause, the stinking mess of smokey, melted polyester and drying semen.  The shower, turned to the hottest, a weak lukewarm, stings the blistering burns as he carefully soaps those he can reach.  He saves his vigorous scrubbing for his groin, tryimg not to think of potential  ramifications of the odd turn his evening had taken.

He paws through the top drawer of his dresser to find his softest, oldest undershirts and boxers. He doesn't  have to  look hard because every bit of his underwear is worn thin enough to read the Sunday Post through. After dressing, he tears the extra undershirt into strips with which he binds the ugliest burns. Rolling into bed, Fusco's head hits the pillow and he's down for the count.


	4. Chapter 4

The smell of wet dog assaults Fusco's nostrils but he's willing to dismiss it as an odd dream until a wet tongue laps at his ear. For his own sense of propriety, he ignores this interruption, pretending to sleep even as a second, more substantial weight dips the foot of the bed.

"Glasses."

"Good morning, Detective," replies a voice that might have sounded chipper if it didnt also so so doggone tired. Pun intended.

Fusco cracks a sleep-gummed eye.  There is the Professor himself in all his glory.  He rubs his eye like a toddler, getting a good look this tine.  Finch is wearing honest-to-God blue jeans, a discount multi-pack white t-shirt and a grey hoodie that's  seen better days.  It must still be cold as fuck because he's wearing a dark mob cap and fingerless gloves that bring safecrackers or sad hobos.

Covered to the chin, Fusco stretches, silently cursing his morning boner, which seems nore resilient this morning, idle thoughts of soft, pliant billionaire genius dancing in his head like sugar plums.  Wincing as he slides from the bed,  he catches Finch giving him a once over that puts him to mind of strip club patrons.  The pale of Finch's cheeks grow rosy, his eyes lingering upon the little mounds of chest that had fascinated Wonder Boy last night; staring, if you would, alternating with his tented old boxers like he's at Wimbleton.

"Eyes up here, guy!" Fusco growls, feeling like Dolly fucking Parton. Finch's pretty pink turns an ugly darker shade of shame.

"I beg your pardon," Finch says, looking away as Fusco limps to the bathroom, shutting the door behind him.


	5. Chapter 5

After a badly needed piss and equally needed brushing of teeth, Fusco surveys himself in the foggy mirror. He winces, spying singed curls - a distraction, he admits, from the makeshift bandages on his forearms, with their rust colored splotches. He puts that onto a backburner, deciding that because there's company, the polite thing to do is to shave. Not that he can impress the almost invariably natty Harold Finch.

  
Trying to steady his shaking hands as he lathers his face, Fusco takes a small comfort that the brains of their operation is in his bedroom, wearing laundry day togs, with dark rings below his eyes that match his own.

Still, it's a good look for the Professor, soft and vulnerable, Fusco muses, cursing eloquently as the razor nicks his cheek.

A polite little knock at the bathroom door. "Do you need any assistance,  Lionel?"

Lionel, now. So damned soft and cute... Fusco shakes his shoulders loose and takes a deep breath, about to do something ordinarily against his better judgement except things weren't just so ordinary after last night.  "Come in."

The door opens with the slightest hesitation, a pale blue eye taking in the lay of the land before Finch strides purposefully in, dog at his heels.

With a blessed minimum of 'tsks', Fimch guidies Fusco to the closed toilet seat.

"Sit."

Fusco and Bear simultaneously obey.

Finch could say, 'You should have asked for help,' but doesn't,  merely staunching the bleeding razor nick with a neatly folded wad of toulet paper before reapplying shaving cream.  His hands are warm and his fingers deft and it's a calming touch, so much that Fusco closes his eyes. 

The sound of razor scrapes drift away as Finch starts whistling something sweet as he works, effortlessly  tilting Fusco's chin this way and that until he's finished.  Water runs and Fusco is brought back by the warm, wet towel running across his face, dabbing away errant clumps of whiskers and Barbosol.

"Thanks," Fusco says, a little shy and a lot wanting Finch to leave before making the barely treated burms his business. 

Fat luck.


End file.
